


Start of a Good Porno

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dismemberment, M/M, New Relationship, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 17:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18525850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: David, meet Wade. Wade, David. Play nice.





	Start of a Good Porno

**Author's Note:**

> I am a fucking genius. No I will not be taking questions.

It’s a hair past three AM when David’s phone buzzes. It should irritate him, but he’s just laying alone in the dark imagining what a full night’s sleep is like anyway, so having Frank call is more an excuse to start the day than anything. 

Rolling out of bed, he thumbs the ‘accept’ icon, muttering a tired, “Yeah?” and getting the exhausted, exhilarated panting that he expects. Frank sounds like he’s hauling something heavy, and David can only imagine him, shitty burner phone tucked between shoulder and ear, hoping David picks up. “What’dyou need, Frank?”

He sounds more awake that time, and he’s a little surprised at the breathless chuckle he gets. 

“Got a guy you need to talk to,” Frank manages, and then, grunting, speaking away from the receiver, “Stay fuckin’ put, idiot.”

It’s too early for this bullshit. It could any hour of the day, David thinks, and it would be too early for this bullshit. 

But what the fuck, right? He’s divorced, he’s got no social life left to speak of, and helping Frank at least lets him feel like he’s not completely dead. So he’s on his feet, grabbing jeans and sweatshirt, looking for his damn hat to cover the hair he keeps meaning to get trimmed but can’t seem to find the drive to actually deal with. “Where?”

“Second closest to you.” He can hear the twist of Frank’s smile, that grim and somehow mocking expression. “Wouldn’t want you to have to walk far at night.”

“Fuck you,” David says, but he’s smiling too. He knows the place Frank’s referring to, knows all the boltholes and hideaways Frank’s got the city because half of them he helped set up. After all, if he’s going to get calls at ungodly hours, he might as well be able to find the places and make himself useful. He shoves his phone into his pocket, turns a slow circle in his tiny apartment, and nabs his hat from the far side of his bed, tugging it over his hair in an effort to make the wild curls less obvious.

It’s not a bad night. Morning. Whatever you call it when midnight has come and gone but the sun still hasn’t risen. He moves briskly, covering ground quickly. People tend not to remember you if you move like you belong, and David’s spent long enough pretending to be dead to know how to get around without attracting attention. He’s more worried about Frank, honestly; he  _ knows _ he won’t lead anyone anywhere because he’s not the guy out there shooting thugs and crooked cops. People chase Frank; no one is looking for David.

All told, it takes less than twenty minutes to get to the rundown tenement block Frank’s rented space in. David has been here a few times, first to set up a computer array (he gave Frank a list of what he needed and didn’t ask how Frank came about the components, just installed everything) and then a few times to run some info or track leads Frank couldn’t muddle the old fashioned way. Or didn’t have time to muddle. 

Either way, he’s heard dry coughing from one other room several times, and once the hair-raising laughter of someone either exceptionally stoned or experiencing a sharp mental break from somewhere above them. It’s the kind of building that will, sooner or later, be bought up for cheap by some real estate group and torn down to make way for more fashionable, expensive accommodations, whether the people already living here could afford to leave or not. 

He expects -- always expects -- Frank to be waiting, some poor schmuck bleeding all over the shitty carpet, maybe tied to one of the chairs, maybe under gunpoint. Once the schmuck in question had been half dead and, in Frank’s words, “a decent bastard”. David didn’t know what happened to him after he’d finished getting the information from him that he’d needed to finish the hack job Frank had assigned him, but it was kind of hard to imagine Frank rolling up in that shitty van to the ER. 

David learned in the year he spent playing a dead man that it was better not to ask questions you didn’t  _ need _ an answer to. 

This time, he’s beaten Frank. That’s fine; it gives him time to get the computers running. Sometimes he misses that basement, eternal damp and all. At least down there the computers were always live, and he didn’t have to worry much about Frank fucking them up because he was always there and Frank knew better than to touch shit he didn’t understand.

Here, who knows how often Frank hides out? How much of the time is this collection of computing equipment just left on its own, perfect for some junky looking for an easy score? He likes to think no one would dare break into one of Frank’s places, but then again, if the intruder doesn’t know who’s place it is, it doesn’t rightly matter does it?

He’s listening for the rattle of the doorknob, expecting Frank to be injured or dealing with someone live enough to give some measure of trouble. His heart is tight -- all this time and this bullshit still gets him nervous and flighty -- and when the window squeals open he whips around where he’s standing just in time to watch a dark bundle tumble through the window. Frank climbs in after, stepping neatly around the ominously still bundle, mouth set in a grim line. It’s Frank’s ‘my patience is wearing thin’ face, and the body -- David’s pretty damn sure it’s a body -- is covered in a lot of red. 

Some of that is fabric, but David knows plenty of it is blood; Frank’s smeared in plenty of it. 

Without really thinking, David moves to try helping Frank get the guy off the floor, and Frank irritably waves him back, moving to get his arms around the man. He’s limp as a rag doll, and he’s --

“Holy shit, Frank, did you cut his leg off?”

This leaves him in a sort of muted shout, because he’s aware enough to know that he can’t be shouting here, even if most of the other tenants are unlikely to stick their noses into someone else’s business. Run-down place like this, no one wants to call the cops. 

Frank gives him an evil look, and David realizes that the guy he’s hauling up is also missing a hand on the same side. He’s wearing a mask, and it takes David a minute to place the mask before he sits heavily in his computer chair, cursing under his breath.

Deadpool is infamous enough that David knows at least  _ some _ of his business. Not enough to have a full picture, but enough to know a willing team-up with Frank was unlikely. David doesn’t really want to be around when the supposedly unkillable mercenary comes to and tries to skewer Frank from dragging him here. 

But he  _ is _ here. So that’s that, he guesses. 

That’s what being alive is, isn’t it? Being afraid of dying.

“You know, I feel like I shouldn’t have to be the one to explain to you that dragging home crazy immortal murderers is a really above-and-beyond way to get us both killed.”

Frank crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, Deadpool deposited to leak all over the ratty leather couch. “He wanted to come. Stay here, I gotta go get… uh, the rest… out of the van.”

He laughs at whatever scrunched up face David makes, and David flips him off. He’s pretty sure when Frank says ‘the rest’, he doesn’t mean more people. And sure, David’s been around his share of dead bodies at this point, but it’s not exactly like he’s had to worry about any of them coming back to life while he’s alone with them. 

But Frank, as ever, gives him no room to argue; he’s back out the window and rattling the fire escape like he’s  _ looking _ for extra attention. All David can do is sit and stare and hope Deadpool stays dead until Frank’s back.

Which, of course, means he draws a sharp, rattling breath two minutes later, sitting up and clawing at his mask with the hand he still has. He hauls it up over his nose, revealing enough of his face for David to figure out that everything he’s read is true as far as the disfigurements go -- the skin shown is waxy and scar-riddled and pale, and he gulps air like he’s been drowning.

Then he starts trying to sit up, looking around the room. “God, wow, what a sty. Please,  _ please _ tell me he doesn’t make you live here. God, he probably does. Don’t worry, scared little computer man, I’ll talk to him.”

It’s a lot, really, and somehow David finds himself chuckling. It’s not as nervous a sound as he expects it to be, and the mercenary bleeding all over the couch and floor grins, all crooked teeth and honest pleasure at having gotten a laugh. 

“So where’s Himbo Rambo gone? Pretty sure he didn’t make  _ you _ carrying me inside.”

“Frank?” David doesn’t know why he looks for clarification -- who the fuck else could that be? “He, uh. I think he went to get your, uh. Leg? Maybe?”

"Aw, bless his heart, he actually grabbed it?  _ So _ much faster than waiting for it to regrow. Hi, I’m Wade, Deadpool, I’d offer to shake your hand, but only horse thieves shake left handed.” 

Maybe it’s the absurdity, or maybe it’s the way the man reclines back on the couch and crosses what’s left of his right leg over his left, but David finds himself laughing again. It’s even easier the second time, and Deadpool -- Wade -- looks downright smug about it. “Is there anything I can, uh, get you?” 

“Oh my  _ god _ , I’m gonna ask Frank if we can trade minions, you are  _ so _ much better than Weas.”

“Uh.”

“Jokes, haha, we love to laugh. I know you’re not a trading card, and Weas would  _ suck _ at helping Frank. He barely helps  _ me _ .”

“O-kay,” David drawls, not sure anymore about the giddy bubbling in his chest. Exhaustion is a hell of a drug, he supposes, and the rapid banter from a guy missing a significant portion of his limbs is probably something of a shock. He turns his chair back toward the computers, sifting through files until he finds the project documents he’d put together surrounding the case Frank was supposed to be prioritizing now. He can hear the rattle of the fire escape, more subtle now, and after a second Frank comes in through the window again, something bundled up in the fabric of his coat. 

It makes David grimace, and as Frank drags the window shut after him, jerking it down sharply against the resistance of the ancient frame, the room seems to bloom with a butcher-shop smell David is regretfully familiar with. 

“Oh Frank, I figured I’d have to buy you dinner first,” Wade says, and when David glances at them, Frank is scowling, on his knees in front of Wade, one hand wrapped with business-like authority around the merc’s severed leg, the other pushing his legs open to give himself room to work. “Though I  _ gotta _ say, you getting on your knees on the first date is  _ super _ good fanfic material. I hope the readers are enjoying themselves as much as me.”

So the thing about him being absolutely insane is clearly as true as the rest. David can’t imagine anyone making that kind of joke with Frank, and he’s not even going to  _ try _ addressing the ‘fanfic’ comment. 

“Shut up,” Frank grumbles, and sits back on his heels to start peeling the leg out of the section of costume that had been cut off with it. 

Wade presses a hand to his chest, mock offended. “Are you worried that I won’t reciprocate? I’ll have you know I am a  _ very _ generous lover and there are people who would  _ pay _ to get my mouth--”

“Wilson, I will break your goddamn jaw. Zip it.”

“And then how will I tell Micro here -- please god don’t let that be some kind of foreshadowing size joke -- all about the pretty tech you need him to hunt down?”

“I assume you know how to write.”

“Oh, witty repartee from the man who mostly just grunts in his Netflix show! I love it. But sadly no, not left handed, and since I don’t see Ms. Michigan falling out of your badass leather duster, I’m going to assume I’m expected to just wait on that to grow back.”

Really, David’s not sure if he’s even meant to be keeping up in this. Listening to them is like being an extra in a film, like he’s not important enough to have his own lines. It’s both irritating and a little soothing -- he’s not exactly sure he wants to be a main character in this situation. 

“Just tell him. I want to get this done some time before the end of the fucking world.”

“I love when you get all grim-dark, baby, it’s a real mood elevator. You  _ sure _ you don’t wanna just trade blowies and call it a night?”

Frank makes noise that promises violence, one hand moving to sweep over his face. David knows whatever patience Frank’s got left is fraying by this point, and decides he might as well speak up.

“What’m I supposed to be looking for?” He asks, and feels weirdly trapped when Deadpool turns his attention on him, like he’s no longer interested in Frank ripping the fabric away from his thigh. He doesn’t let himself look away, although he really wants to, and the merc grins. “I mean, if it keeps him from stabbing you, probably better to just tell me. I wanna go back to bed sometime tonight.”

Wade shimmies on the couch until he’s sitting straight, make Frank growl in frustration before getting up to go fish something out of one of the narrow closet in the hall. David’s not terribly surprised when he comes back with a roll of duct tape, but he’s more focused on the merc as he starts describing the tech that Frank was interested in. He knows, of course, no actual technical terms, so is reduced to gesturing vaguely with his stump and his hand, describing colour and function and the exact way the device had exploded when he had shot it. 

“It was like it made everybody else think they were somewhere else,” Wade says by way of wrapping up. “Somewhere bad, if the screaming was any judge, which it usually is. Where’d it take you, Frankie?”

Frank made a vague noise, lips pressed together, eyes on his work as he tried to get Wade’s leg back in proper place, taping it carefully. Obviously not something he wanted to talk about, which was, honestly, par for the course with Frank and unpleasant situations. He preferred to bottle everything up until it exploded, violently, out of him.

“Anyway, I figure it’s probably some kind of brain fuckery, cause a lot of that shit doesn’t work on me. My eggs are already scrambled. But it wasn’t just brain stuff cuz some guy got for-real gutted, and usually psychic visions don’t do that. And there was no evil Professor X in that little box, either.”

David has already turned and started searching. He has a few vague ideas about what the device could have been and whole might have made it. “And the thing you blew up, was it… streamlined, I guess? Did it look like something you could make at home?”

“Nah, it was super sci-fi sleek, very high tech. I wouldn’t promise ‘mass-produced’ but if there was an Evil Villain Market this would be like, in the artisan crafts section.”

The room goes quiet, just the sound of David typing and Frank tearing short strips of duct tape, and eventually Wade starts humming. It takes David a second to place the song, before he recognizes it as ‘We Found Love’. His brows slide up, because that’s an odd choice, but he focuses on following the data, between the goons Frank had been after tonight, they guy paying them, and the various shiny new bits of tech that could feasibly manage what Deadpool had described. 

When Frank meanders over to his side, he can feel the agitation drifting off him like a cloud. He wonders if Frank has any new injuries he’s covering up with all the anger and irritation he’s projecting, and decides that’s probably Frank’s problem if he has. If Frank wanted help getting patched up, he’d ask. 

It takes almost fifteen minutes before David finds anything promising, and by the time he’s pointed out the connections and given his obligatory words of caution, it’s almost 5 AM and Frank is moving to climb back out his window, keen to follow the lead while it’s fresh. 

“Well if you gimme like, two hours to get in running shape, I’ll come with,” Wade says, trying to get to his feet and failing. There’s a few creepy nubs starting to form from the mess at the end of his right arm; the beginnings, David guesses, of a new hand. “For real, by the time we get where we’re going I’ll be rock steady. I’m a great meat shield. Come on, Frank, let’s be buddies, I’ll spring for tacos after!”

Frank gives him a hard look and says, “Next time, don’t get half your limbs chopped off ‘n we’ll talk.” Then he’s gone, the fire escape rattling and Wilson crosses his arms and openly pouts. 

David feels a little weird, and strangely a little bad about the merc being stuck. The idea of leaving to go back to his shitty, lonely apartment is supremely unappealing, and feels kind of bad given that Wade would be stuck here alone. And anyway, David doesn’t want to leave anyone alone with the computing array. This one is more complete than any of the others he’s put together for Frank, and Deadpool seems like the kind of guy to break shit out of boredom.

Or spite.

“You want breakfast?” He asks impulsively, moving to the tiny kitchen. He kept the pantry stocked with non-perishables, never knowing when Frank would end up shacking up here. “I can do, uhhh…” he opens the cupboards and peers in, frowning. “I can do pancakes?”

That gets the merc to perk up shockingly fast. “Pancakes are almost as good as murdering violent apocalypse-nudging bastards. Syrup?”

“Yeah, I got syrup,” David says, pulling the ‘just add water’ mix out of the cupboard and heading to the sink to try eyeballing the appropriate amount of water. “I got instant coffee, too, if you want.”

“You are really the full package, huh,” the merc says from the couch, reclining again. When David looks at him, he grins openly. “Usually I only get breakfast from people I’m paying or am sleeping with. You expecting a check?”

Why that makes David start to blush, he doesn’t want to examine. It’s a joke, the implication is part of the joke. He looks back to the pancake mix, like he needs to watch the bottle as he shakes it to combine powder and water. “Cash or credit,” he says.

“And me without my wallet. Now there’s a good start to a porno. Micro and the One Armed Merc. Honestly, we gotta get you a better code name if we’re gonna make this work.”


End file.
